


The Santa Slayer

by Kizzywiggle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, No Plot/Plotless, Other, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 21:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16773556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzywiggle/pseuds/Kizzywiggle
Summary: Someone has been killing department shop Santas. The Police have drawn a blank, which means it's now a case for Holmes and Watson.Short and silly.





	The Santa Slayer

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I did this by the seat of my pants and it's unresearched.
> 
> For Bee.

A Christmas Wish  
Little Helper John swore under his breath, running an uncomfortable finger under his collar, then apologised when a mum with three _delightful_ brats – sorry, kids ¬– tutted at him in disgust. With effort, he schooled his face into a jolly, reassuring smile, and shook his head so the bell on the end of his long cap jingled merrily.

“Welcome to Sharrat’s Christmas Grotto!” he said with false cheer and clapped his hands together, rubbing the palms gleefully. “Santa is very excited to meet all of you boys and girls, and he hopes that while you wait patiently, your mums and dads – yes, and aunties and grandads too – will take advantage of a free Christmas biscuit. If you’ve got your tickets, you can even go and have a look round the shop and we will call the numbers over the sound system. 

“Now,” he gurned, hating himself with a passion, “Are you _ready_?”

The assorted cherubs in their winter puffa jackets, earmuffs and mittens screamed deafeningly. John winced and wondered how _anyone_ could be this excitable so very early on a Saturday morning, Christmas or not. With a sweeping bow he leaned over and pressed the hidden switch that illuminated the grotto and started the incessant loop of Christmas-ish muzak which had burrowed into his head three days ago and refused to leave. The mite whose mum was waving the ‘number one’ ticket barrelled forward and burst into Santa’s sanctum. John sent up a fervent prayer for Santa’s safety then turned to sort a dispute between the dad of number four and what looked like the granny of number five who were at daggers drawn.

It was going to be a long, _long_ shift.

***

Nine exhausting, soul-destroying, spawn-filled hours later, John pushed his way through the living room door at 221b Baker Street and flung his body into his armchair with a grunt. “Scrooge had the right of it, you know,” he mused aloud, massaging his aching temples with his index fingers. “Those little demons should get coal – if they’re lucky! - and bloody well lump it. Sods!” He toed off his boots as he mumbled then scrunched and flexed his toes with a happy sigh. “That’s so _very_ much better,” he groaned.

“Are you finished?” said the deep and even tones of Sherlock, from the kitchen doorway.

“No,” bitched John. “You try being a jolly-fucking-pixie for nine-sodding-hours on the last Saturday before Christmas and see how long _you_ complain for. Only you can’t, can you, because Santa only has tiny wee elves, not lanky cadaverous _smartarses!_ ” He opened his eyes to stare blankly at the ceiling. “I. Hate. Christmas. I hate Santa and all his fucking elves, Rudolph and his very shiny nose, and I truly, completely and utterly _despise_ parents of screaming brats and their sense of…enti…tle…ment-”

He broke off as Sherlock moved into his field of vision and stared, wordless, at the apparition before him.

Gone was Sherlock – tall, gangly, pale and overly thoughtful. In his place stood _Santa Claus._

From shiny black boots, to red velvet suit, _huge_ belly and snowy. White. Beard.

Sherlock’s familiar blue eyes looked steadily back at John, somehow now twinkling with merriment, rather than glittering with contempt for the dull people, as was usual.

“Wha-?” John said, intelligently. “I mean, what? What-the-actual-fuck, Sherlock?”

Sherlock spread his hands and performed a slow pirouette so John could take in the full Christmassy magnificence of him.

“I,” he announced, smugly, “Am going undercover!”

“As _Santa_?” John asked disbelievingly.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, and thank _Christ_ at least his tone was the familiar condescending one. “I’ve sat and analysed all of the available data regarding the Santa Slayer, and I am 98 percent certain that Sharrat’s is the only logical location for their next strike. The same analysis is also highly persuasive that tomorrow is the most likely date for a Santa Slaying, it being the last Sunday before Christmas. Therefore I will be Santa to your elf tomorrow, and between us, we will capture the killer before another Jolly Old Saint Nick meets a grisly end.”

John gaped, like a very festive fish. “But you _hate_ children, Sherlock,” he said. “And tomorrow is going to be nine hours of the little darlings sitting damply on your knee, pulling your beard, wiping God-alone-knows-what on your suit, and screaming for the hell of it! Why are you doing this?”

“Because I believe I will be able to identify the killer more expediently from within, as it were,” Sherlock answered calmly. “Discreet surveillance carries too many risks on this case. I also believe the killer will attempt to strike early – all their previous victims were taken from their grottoes well before lunchtime.

“Believe me, John, when I say I have looked at this from every conceivable angle, and I am convinced that this is the best and only method of capturing the Santa Slayer.”

“What about Tony?” John asked. “Tomorrow is pretty much the busiest Santa day, and he was on double time for the whole shift – he’s got thirteen grandkids to buy presents for, you know!”

Sherlock waved a dismissive, elegant hand, somehow incongruous with the fat, jolly rest of him. “Lestrade is sorting all of that out,” he said. “I believe that… _Tony_ …will be in the break room, on full rates, until my little part is over, at which point he will step back into Santa’s boots for the rest of the day. Satisfied?”

John sat up and scrubbed both hands over his face (incidentally smearing his jolly-elf red cheeks, which he’d forgotten to clean off before taking the Tube home) and exhaled a huge, gusty sigh.

“I’m going to have to be, aren’t I?” he said. “Because my two weeks of hell certainly haven’t turned anything up. And far be it from me to argue with your calculations, Sherlock. Oh, no, I wouldn’t dare. Anyway,” he stood and headed to the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?” _Nothing, by the looks of it!_ he grumbled to himself. 

“I thought we’d get takeaway or something,” Sherlock said from just behind John, making him jump. “But focus, John! I need your help before we eat.”

John turned round and regarded Sherlock with a cautious face.

“What?” he asked. “And can I get changed first?”

“No, no need. Actually, I need you in your costume. I thought maybe I could rehearse a little.”

“You _what?_ ” “As you so rightly pointed out, I’m not over fond of children, and I have most definitely never been Santa before. I thought you could help me practise? I need to be convincing, else the Santa Slayer may decide to strike elsewhere. This would be unacceptable.”

Again, John stood there with his mouth open, trying to parse what Sherlock had said into something which made actual sense. “You…what?”

“I thought I’d sit here,” Sherlock indicated the kitchen chair nearest to him, “And practice being jolly and interested.”

“And I’ll pretend to show children in?” John clarified.

“Oh, no, I can deal with _that._ ” Sherlock coughed. If he’d been anyone else, John would have sworn he was embarrassed, but this was Sherlock, so fat chance. “I need you to pretend to be a child and sit on my knee.”

“You _what?_ ” John laughed. “Come _on_ , Sherlock! _Me?_ Eleven and a half stone of ‘child’?” He made the inverted commas with his fingers, his tone completely disbelieving and sarcastic, but as usual Sherlock completely missed it.

“Yes, John,” he said calmly, seating himself. “Now, come and tell Santa what you want for Christmas.” He patted his knee and…ugh… _twinkled_ at John again.

John shrugged.

“Far be it from me to argue with you,” he stated. “Fine.”

He crossed the two steps to where Sherlock sat, and perched just over his knee, hovering instead of touching him.

“That won’t do!” Sherlock said, and grasped John’s hips to seat him properly. “Right.” His voice took on a jolly, hearty sound. “Now, what would you like for Christmas, little boy?”

“I’d like Swedish twins, about twenty five years old, bosoms clear out to –here-“answered John, waving his hands improbably far in front of his own chest. “They’d need to be inventive, gymnastic, and have limitless stamina too.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at such folly. “I’ll get a lot of requests like this, will I? Really, John, do this properly.”

“ _Fine!_ ” John snapped. He wriggled on Sherlock’s bony knee, then adopted a little-boy lisp. “I’d like a new iPad, Santa, and a really hi-res webcam, and my own YouTube channel with a million viewers and to be _famous!_ ” When Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, he shrugged again. “That’s just one we had today, Sherlock. Promise.”

“I’ll see what I can do, little boy,” Santa-Sherlock promised. “In the meantime, here is a little gift for you. Have a very merry Christmas, ho-ho-ho!”

“That was shocking!” laughed John. “Still, I can’t see you getting any better by tomorrow. Shall I order the Chinese?” He stood and moved away to the drawer where he kept the takeaway menus. “The usual?”

Sherlock stood too. “Yes, I suppose so, John. I hope you’re a better elf than you are little boy, or this could all go horribly wrong tomorrow.” He wafted out of the kitchen, leaving John to mutter and slam around the kitchen before he remembered he was meant to be ordering dinner.

***

The following day, John and Sherlock had been busy in the grotto for about two and a half hours, dealing with the usual pitfalls of such an enterprise – Sherlock’s face the first time an overexcited toddler had soaked his knee was priceless, and was definitely going in John’s mental album of Moments to Treasure. 

Suddenly, John noticed Sherlock signalling to him. He waved at Sherri, the other duty elf, and nodded over to Sherlock. She smiled with understanding and moved over to control the line while John went into the grotto proper to stand by Sherlock.

There was a girl, slim, quite tall perched on Sherlock’s knee. She looked about eleven or twelve, a little old for this kind of thing, but John had seen stranger in his time as an elf. However, her voice was most definitely not that of a child. It was low, husky and urgent. John couldn’t hear what she was saying, but the tone was coldly menacing. She leaned further into Sherlock and whispered in his ear. He nodded once, a sharp movement of assent, then gave the girl the ho-ho-ho and a wrapped present. She took it and walked calmly out of the grotto, just another kid on the cusp or adulthood clinging to her childhood.

John moved over to Sherlock. “Was that the Slayer?” he asked.

“Yes, and I have my instructions,” replied Sherlock. “You need to try and get down to the deliveries bay before my lunch break. I’m to meet there there at twelve fifteen, or she’ll take one of the children from the line in my place.” He was perfectly calm and matter of fact, whereas John had felt the sickening rush of adrenalin as his heart sped up.

“Delivery bay, before twelve fifteen. Got it.” He said. John flicked a glance at the huge Sharrat’s clock opposite the grotto. “It’s eleven fifty now. I’ll go and see if Sherri will swap lunchbreaks with me.”

“Do that,” Sherlock said. 

Sherri was happy to swap, so at twelve on the dot John excused himself and made his jingly way to the delivery bay at basement level. It was currently not bereft of trucks, and was dark and cavernous, smelling faintly of damp concrete and residual diesel fumes. He found a metal cage full of broken-down boxes for recycling and slid behind it to wait. Before very long, Sherlock-as-Santa appeared and leaned against a wall before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a battered cigarette packet.

There was the sound of quiet footsteps, and John looked over to see the girl approaching, hands in her pockets, for all the world like a normal kid.

“Hello, Santa,” she called in her deep, beautiful voice. “Glad to see you’re on time. _For once.”_

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock asked reasonably, lighting up and pulling deep on his cigarette.

“Because you never used to be,” she stated. “Every year, Santa, _every bloody year_ you didn’t come! And I was a _good girl,_ Santa, I promise I was. And for what? _Nothing!_ I was _so good_ , and still you didn’t come! Not one present in twenty four years! So I decided I’d stop being good, and get your attention by being naughty.

“Oh….so…naughty.” she said, and pulled a handgun from her pocket.

“What are you hoping to achieve with your…naughtiness?” Sherlock asked reasonably. “I’m fairly sure that you won’t be getting any presents on Christmas morning.”

“I accepted that before I decided to kill all of you lying Santa-bastards,” she said. “Peddling false hopes and broken promises to all those kids. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! But every Santa I remove is one less Santa to destroy a child’s life. I’m like a Christmas Angel!” She laughed merrily, but her face didn’t change, nor did her gun waver.

“Your logic is atrocious,” Sherlock said.

“What does it matter?” she shrugged.

“Well, for a start, it means you’ve killed seven men in six weeks. It means you’ve ruined the Christmases of those men’s families, _including_ children. You haven’t righted a wrong, you’ve made it worse.”

Sherlock flicked a hand and John crept from behind the cage, making his way to the girl, staying in the blind spots. However, he’d forgotten his jingle bell cap, which tinkled merrily until he clapped his hand over the bell to muffle it. He pulled it off and placed it carefully on the ground as the girl whirled about and trained her gun on the darkness briefly, before spinning back to face Sherlock. “Who else have you brought with you?” she demanded. “I told you to come alone!”

“You’re imagining things,” Sherlock assured her. “Now, shall we discuss your turning yourself in? It might bring a happy ending to this rather sordid saga, don’t you think?” He looked over her shoulder at John and nodded slowly, then moved noisily towards the Santa Slayer, covering the noise of John’s approach and grabbing the girl’s arm. “Give yourself up,” he implored in deep, rich tones which would have made lesser men weep. 

She, however, was neither male nor lesser, and she knocked Sherlock’s arm away and brought the gun up to fire, shouting “Why should I do what _you_ say, you bloody liar? _WHY?_ ” 

John leapt from the darkness and grabbed her gun arm, wrestling her for control. However she was wiry and strong and fought like a maddened bear, slowly bringing the gun back down to point it at Sherlock long enough to pull the trigger. He cried out and crumpled to the ground and so did the girl. “Santa!” she wept, sounding like a heartbroken child. “Santaaaaaa!” As she howled, the sound of sirens filled the delivery bay and London’s Finest arrived in a storm of light and noise, Lestrade barrelling from the first car before it had fully stopped. He pulled the girl to her feet, thrusting her at two uniformed officers to cuff, while looking to where John knelt over Sherlock, tearing through the layers of costume and belly to find the gunshot wound. 

“He’ll be fine,” John assured Greg, then returned to stripping Sherlock as Lestrade began reading the girl her rights. Pulling away the several pillows stuffed under Sherlock’s white vest, John ran his fingers disbelievingly over Sherlock’s unmarked, unbloodied torso. There wasn’t a wound! “What…?” he wondered out loud, then gasped as Sherlock murmured “Mmmmm…that’s rather lovely….” And sat up. 

“You lucky bastard,” John said wonderingly. “How did you not get shot?”

“Simple calculation of vectors,” Sherlock said. “Ridiculously simple. Now, shall we go home?”

“we can’t,” John told him with no little delight, “We have to finish our shift!”

********

It felt like several days later when they finally got home, having given statements to the police and _not_ having finished the shift. Despite that, both men were weary and crankily hungry. As the door swung open, the smell of what could only be Mrs. H’s beef stew billowed out and they both groaned. “Mrs. H, you’re a lifesaver, Sherlock said to the room.

__

“I know dear,” she replied as she walked out of the kitchen. But remember, I’m –“ 

__

“Not the housekeeper!” the men chorused. 

__

“You’re a ministering bloody angel,” John said, pecking her on the cheek. 

__

“Truly,” Sherlock agreed, following suit. She blushed and beamed. 

__

“Well, for that there _might_ be fruit cake in the tin there,” she told them. “Good job the pair of you on catching the Santa Slayer. I’m so proud of you, boys. Now, eat up!” and with that she breezed out of the flat, calling out, “And I’m not washing up, either!" 

__


End file.
